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Sometimes, the hands are the rhythm, bass and treble that ameliorate the percussion of the soul's Prakash.
Where each heartbeat is a Mudra of a Devi's Natyam.
A peacock feather wavers unflinchingly in the chariot of the Titanocobra against the hurricane of adversity where the Kurukshetra of individuality is challenged.
The sands of time recede from the shores of mystery, where footprints are a metaphor for the metatarsals of creativity.
The ocean is a bed of efflorescence and a manger of constant nativity.
Life has no definition, for each abstraction escapes its own meaning.
The songs that are written upon the fingers are the evangelical choir of the Sunrise's ecstacy.
